This poem should be finished by now.
It’s gone on too long even though just began.
Already I can tell you it won’t tell you much.
I should know. I’m writing the poem.
The only way even I will know what this poem
is about is to keep writing.
If I quite writing now I won’t have a clue
and neither will you.
The one insight offered is blurry at best.
The driving force is not a brilliant metaphor
but a simile, the old life is like a journey cliché.
It’s like accidentally getting on the wrong train
with the wrong suitcase and briefcase in hand.
You don’t know where you’re going.
You don’t know what you’re taking with you.
You don’t know what you’re going to do
when you arrive at your destination.
All the name signs have been removed so you
won’t know where you are when you’re there.
But don’t worry, at least you know
you know you don’t know much.
You know the train is already moving.
You know others are already on board,
and that is something worth knowing.
The rest is ignorance you must learn to live with.
So improvise, extemporize, ad lib, make do,
on the ride of not knowing you will get to know you..